Rhythm of the Road

by Autumn Jones Lake

  “Well, no…uh…” She lowers her voice. “Ice took care of him.” She raises her eyebrows in a catch-my-drift sort of way.

  So, stepdaddy’s six-feet under somewhere. I’m certainly not losing sleep over the information.

  Her gaze drops to my VP patch. “You’re a brother. I can tell you that, right?”

  “Of course.” On second thought, Ice might not appreciate her sharing that with anyone, brother or not. “But let’s pretend you didn’t.”

  She snaps her mouth shut.

  “Go on,” I encourage her. “You got those videos down?”

  “Yeah. They still pop up from time to time. I get sick of chasing them, though.”

  I stare at her, trying hard not to ask the obvious question.

  “A boyfriend posted some clips without telling me maybe a year later.” She lifts her shoulders. “I figured the whole world’s seen me anyway. Might as well profit off it myself.”

  Christ, that’s fucking sad.

  I’m overcome with the urge to bang my head against the desk. For fuck’s sake, I’m a fucking biker who really shouldn’t give a shit about any of this.

  I struggle to keep my face neutral. Seems as if life’s given her one shitty choice after another. I don’t want to make her feel bad about the decisions she’s made.

  “Is there anything else you ever wanted to do?” I tap my pen against the desk, debating my words. “You know it might be hard to find a different line of work later on.”

  “I think that ship has sailed.” She flashes a pained smile. “Ice is letting me keep fifty percent ownership of all my content. That’s better than the five hundred a scene I used to get paid and own nothing after.”

  “True.” I’d gone over the contracts and paperwork setting up the corporation. Honestly, I’m shocked Ice was so generous. Is he using club funds or personal for this business?

  Doesn’t matter. Not your business.

  “Maybe counseling or something,” she says. “Ice made me finish my associates in psychology.”

  I guess that’s something.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Shelby

  Dawson has been true to his word. Bane’s like superglue. Can’t pry him off my ass. I swore up and down I wouldn’t leave my room but I bet if I opened that door, I’d find him sittin’ out in the hallway.

  The hum of the hotel’s air conditioner blunts the city noises drifting into my room.

  I center myself in the middle of the bed and clutch the crystal around my neck. The nominations for the Country Music Awards are coming soon. Afraid to let anyone know how much I secretly long for at least a nomination, I haven’t breathed a word.

  I don’t need to win. But just a nod would be nice. So maybe people would stop writing headlines like the one posted on Sippin’ on Secrets this afternoon.

  Buxom blonde songbird parts ways with biker

  I mean, what the heck? Now I don’t even get a name? Deeper down, in a place I don’t feel like acknowledging, it prickles at my insecurity about being so far away from Rooster.

  You’re going to see him in a couple days. You’ve talked to him every day. Quit being a baby.

  The corners of my mouth tug up. At least that article will keep my mother off my back about Rooster. Maybe I should send Sippin’ on Secrets a thank you note.

  Ha! Talk about puttin’ a positive spin on something negative.

  Feeling a bit better, I shuffle my tarot cards through my hands and close my eyes.

  What do I need to do right now to be taken seriously in this business?

  The cards flow through my hands, one after the other. I open my eyes and stare down at them as I shuffle.

  One card pops out, landing facedown in front of me.

  Huh. I’m not the best shuffler in the world, but even so, I don’t usually have jumper cards.

  Card on the floor means check your door. Momma says that all the time. Jumper cards are serious business—something happening soon the universe really wants you to know about. She usually says to treat it as a special card outside of the message of the spread and sets it aside.

  Resisting the urge to turn it over, I pick it up and set it next to my knee.

  A chill runs down my spine.

  I flick my gaze to the air conditioner.

  The negative energy surrounding me from missing Rooster is gonna throw off my reading. And if that doesn’t do it, the stress of receiving another creepy letter last night sure will. Same black paper. Same silver ink. It was shorter than the last one but creepier than midnight at summer camp in October.

  Dearest Shelby,

  It pleases me when you’re a good girl and behave yourself.

  Soon.

  All my love.

  M

  Clearly M is a few bricks short of a load.

  Focus.

  Forget the stupid letters and concentrate.

  What do I need to do right now to be taken seriously in this business? I repeat the question softly to myself while I continue shuffling the deck.

  When I’m satisfied, I lay out my three cards and turn them over one by one.

  Three of Swords.

  Ten of Swords.

  Justice.

  I stare at the cards.

  Breathe. Don’t freak out.

  There are no “good” or “bad” cards. They represent a spectrum of meaning. At least, that’s what some people say. It’s trendy to try and put a positive spin on the cards that lean negative. But my momma always insists I read the hand I’m dealt the way it’s dealt.

  I pick up the booklet that came with the deck and flip through the pages. These all seem related to interpersonal relationships or…I don’t know what.

  I was asking a career question.

  Maybe the universe doesn’t give a crap about your questions.

  Three of Swords—the card depicts three swords piercing a full heart. Representative of unexpected painful events. Heartache, separation, sadness.

  Well, I miss Rooster. That’s not a surprise.

  I set aside other interpretations that say the card can indicate infidelity and breakups.

  Ten of Swords—a man facedown with ten swords in his back.

  A sign of an unwelcome surprise in the future. So, I won’t get nominated for a CMA? That’s not exactly a surprise either.

  Again, I ignore that it can also indicate a breakup.

  Or the obvious interpretation that someone’s going to stab you in the back.

  Justice. Okay, this isn’t a bad card. Unless you’re a serial killer or something. Justice can also restore balance and order in some way if you’ve been wronged.

  I sweep my gaze over the cards again. Maybe whoever’s going to stab me in the back will get what they deserve? And the painful events can be a learning opportunity?

  Dammit, why can’t the universe be a little more direct?

  I bite my lip and continue studying the cards. Who would stab me in the back? Except for Trent, I’m not really close to any of the guys in my band. They were hired specifically for this tour. We get along okay but Trent’s closer to them than I am.

  Greg hasn’t been my manager for long. I don’t always trust him. Then again, it’s hard for me to trust anyone. Always has been.

  Except Rooster. I trust him more than I probably should.

  Don’t go there. I asked a career question. This ain’t a love reading.

  I jot down the cards and their positions in my notebook to study later.

  The jumper card catches my eye and I flip it over.

  The Devil.

  My heart thuds louder, drowning out all the other noises. Never gotten that one before. It’s not as evil as it seems. But it can indicate addiction, obsession, or negativity of some sort in my life. Sometimes it can hint at self-destruction.

  I jot a few notes and close my journal.

  Another chill races down my spine and this time it’s got nothing to do with the air-conditioning.

  Chapter Forty-Seven
r />   Rooster

  The morning of Anya’s interview, the clubhouse seems to be empty. Guess Ice wasn’t lying when he said he had somewhere else to be.

  I meet her at the bar. She keeps rocking from side to side on her feet and startles when I approach.

  “Easy, it’s just me. You ready to go?”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind taking me?” She drops her head, her long wheat-blond hair covering her face. “I just never know what I’m going to encounter. . .”

  It’s not on the top of things I’m in the mood to do today but the whole point of me coming down here was to help out. Eventually, Ice needs to pick a brother he trusts to escort his stars but today, I’ll handle it.

  “No problem.”

  She glances toward the parking lot. “You got an extra helmet?”

  “You’re not riding on the back of my bike.” That came out harsher than I intended. I tack on a, “sweetheart,” to soften the rejection. But no fucking way is anyone except Shelby claiming that spot.

  Her wide eyes meet mine. Her slick red lips part but no words come out. Guess guys don’t say no to her often.

  “Back of my bike’s for my ol’ lady.” Not that I owe her an explanation.

  “Oh. Of course. I didn’t realize. I thought.” She blows out a breath and snaps her mouth shut.

  “You ready?” I nod to her oversized, long-sleeve shirt and jeans. “We don’t have a lot of time if you want to change.”

  “Oh.” She tugs at the hem of the shirt and laughs. “Yeah. It’s a radio interview. Those fuckers can pay if they want to see me naked.”

  Can’t argue with that logic.

  I grab the keys to one the club’s extra trucks and head outside. Anya hurries to catch up to me, her sneakers grinding over the gravel and sending little rocks skittering out in front of us. I point the remote at the line of trucks and hit the unlock button. A black Ford F-150 beeps and flashes its lights.

  After a quick check that the lights and everything seem to be working—fuck knows so many arrests could be avoided if people bothered to check their damn tail lights—I motion for Anya to get in on the passenger side.

  “Thanks for doing this.” She hands me her phone with the address for the radio station so I can plug it into the GPS.

  “Are you nervous?” I ask.

  “A little.” She laughs. “I’ve only done one or two other interviews and the guys were gross.”

  I grin at her. “Maybe don’t say that in the interview.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You know not to get into specifics about who bankrolls you, hosts your site, or anything like that, right?”

  “Oh yeah. Ice was clear I shouldn’t ever mention the club.”

  “Good.” This isn’t technically illegal. Still, the whole Lost Kings organization prefers to stay out of as many mouths and off as many radars as possible.

  I pull into the parking garage and back the truck into a spot near the stairs. Anya blinks at me when I follow her into the stairwell.

  “You’re coming in with me?”

  “That was the whole point, wasn’t it? Otherwise, I could’ve just called you an Uber.”

  “Oh, well.” She tips her head toward my cut. “Your patches. You said you didn’t want the club connected…”

  Aw, ain’t that sweet? “Nah, financially the club doesn’t want to be linked. Don’t really care who knows you have the club’s protection.”

  “Thank you.” Her tense smile fades. “I mean it.”

  “No problem.” I gesture toward the stairs. “Let’s go.”

  An hour later, I’m thoroughly bored and reconsidering my love for our Virginia brothers. One of those motherfuckers could’ve played chauffeur today. I glance at my phone. I can’t wait to be done with Mission Porno, VA edition.

  I’ve only been half-listening to the interview. Every time I glance up, Anya has an attentive look on her face, or she’s laughing and twirling her hair around her finger.

  My phone buzzes.

  Shelby: Miss you. Driver says we’ll be there around one a.m.

  Shit, that’s later than I expected.

  Me: I’ll be there.

  Shelby: You don’t have to. It’s so late.

  Me: I’m not exactly an early-to-bed guy. Send me the address.

  She doesn’t answer right away, so I assume she’s finding the info for me. Greg’s probably planning to have them sleep in the van. I’ll either take Shelby back to the clubhouse or go to a hotel.

  “So, you’re into the bad boys?” one of the interviewers asks.

  I snap my head up.

  Anya lets out a flirty giggle. “Of course.”

  The other interviewer leers at her. “You ever give nice guys a chance?”

  I snort. Nice guy. That’s usually code for a passive-aggressive dude who feels entitled to a woman’s attention—or more—because he’s so “nice.” This guy has jerk written all over him.

  “I mean, it depends.” Anya giggles again. A fake, bubbly sound that’s more grating than cute. “A truly nice guy, sure. But someone who’s pretending to be nice just to get in my panties? Hell no.”

  Good answer, Anya. I chuckle and go back to my phone.

  “—biker boyfriend?”

  What now?

  I narrow my eyes. The jerk interviewer’s watching me with a smirk that’s about to get punched off his face.

  “No, that’s my bodyguard,” Anya says.

  Jerk opens his mouth and the other interviewer cuts him off. Guess he carries the common sense for the pair.

  “That’s all we have time for today. Anya, you want to give out your website or any other info?” the sensible one asks.

  “Sure.” She rattles off the website and a code for people to use that will rope them into a recurring subscription.

  “Tune in tomorrow morning. We’ll be interviewing country music’s newest sweetheart, Shelby Morgan.”

  Wait, what?

  “Oh, she’s hot,” Jerk interviewer groans into the microphone. “Now there’s a girl who should be in porn.”

  Motherfucker. I stand up, ready to crack open his skull.

  My phone buzzes again and I check to find an address from Shelby.

  Me: Are you doing some radio interview tomorrow?

  No response.

  She’s mentioned Greg setting her up on surprise interviews before. Maybe she doesn’t even know about it yet.

  Anya’s interview seems to be over. Some pop tune floats over the speakers. Sounds like someone dropped a bunch of soup cans over a piano with a sack full of cats screaming in the background. But what do I know?

  My gaze zeroes in on Anya’s uncomfortable smile as she inches her way toward freedom.

  That’s what I’m here for.

  Not giving one absolute fuck, I open the door to the studio.

  “You sure I can’t take you out tonight, sweetheart?” Jerk says to her.

  “Sorry, I have plans.” Anya’s nervous gaze darts to me.

  “We need to get some promotional photos,” the sensible guy says.

  Fuck.

  I drop back into my chair and wait for someone at the station to pop in with a camera and snap some shots of the three of them standing in front of a wall with a full-color painting of the station’s tacky logo.

  Jerk keeps asking her questions, trying to convince her to go out with him.

  “We done?” I interrupt the conversation. She’s too nice to cut them off and I have no problem playing the bad guy here.

  I curl my hand at Anya. “Come on. Time to go.”

  Anya wiggles her fingers. “Bye. Thanks so much for having me.” She skirts away from the two men while I stare the jerk down.

  “Thanks, Mr. Bodyguard.” He smirks at me.

  I don’t bother responding, just shut the door behind us.

  In the elevator downstairs, Anya shivers and rolls her eyes. “Yuck, that guy was so gross.”

  “Yeah, he sounded like a dick.”

>   “Did I do okay? I didn’t sound like an airhead, did I?”

  Shit, I barely even listened. “The parts I caught sounded good to me.”

  Once we’re in the truck, I pull out my phone.

  Shelby: Yup. Two shock jock D-bags.

  My mouth curls up. Fuck, I miss Shelby’s sassy mouth.

  “What’s wrong?” Anya asks.

  “Nothing.” I toss my phone in the middle console.

  Guess I’ll be paying the radio station another visit tomorrow.

  And you bet your ass I’ll be listening to every word of that interview.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Rooster

  Sure, now the clubhouse is full with awake and functioning brothers.

  Ice greets Anya and me in the common area. “How’d it go, princess?”

  “Good,” she coos and curls her hair around her finger, rocking her hips from side to side. All she needs is a schoolgirl outfit and some bubble gum and the two of them could go film a video right now. Jesus, this is Sway and Stella all over again. Starting to wonder if that president’s patch makes your brain leak out through your dick or something.

  Jigsaw wanders in, bleary-eyed and hanging onto a small, dark-haired girl. Even in her five-inch fuck-me pumps, she barely clears his shoulder.

  He lifts his chin at me. “Why didn’t you wake me up? I would’ve come with you.”

  “It’s fine.”

  Anya squeezes my arm. “Rooster was so badass. That fucker Scotty kept hassling me to go out with him tonight, and Rooster scared the piss out of him.”

  “Thanks, brother.” Ice jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Got a minute?”

  “Sure.” I point to Jigsaw. “Don’t go far. I need to talk to you.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  I follow Ice into his office and he closes the door behind us. “How’d it go?” he rumbles in a flat, disinterested tone that probably inspired his road name.

  “Fine.” Fuck, I agreed to go as protection, not to return with a fucking full report of events. “She handled it well. Gave out the info for the site. Station said they’ll keep it up on their website too.”